


He Sleeps in His Bed (While He Plays Pretend)

by PersonyPepper



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (ill have warnings at beginnings of chapters), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Friends With Benefits, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jealous Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Misunderstandings, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Rough Sex, Rutting, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, ask to tag !!, brief brief brief mention of suicidal ideation, but fucked up, dubon, ideation that can be easily skipped over, man are they stupid, noncon!!, theyre hoes but theyre sad hoes!, this is more angst than sex, usage of word rape, will tag emotional abuse just in case !!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: When Yennefer leaves him, Geralt comes back to Jaskier, heart in his hand, anger, hurt, and heartbreak bleeding from it. Geralt grieves his love life with his eyes closed, his body bare and fucking into his bard, Yennefer's name on his lips.On the other hand, as months pass, Geralt's begins to fall in love with Jaskier himself, leaving a huge misunderstanding his wake.Or, Geralt comes back to Jaskier every time Yennefer breaks his heart and fucks Jaskier, who doesn't make a sound, knowing his voice would sound very unlike the sorceress the bard knows Geralt pretends he's fucking into.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, briefly - Relationship
Comments: 98
Kudos: 451





	1. Because hearts get broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier laments his poor love-life :(

Jaskier thumbs over his lute, a quiet show for Roach— the song’s a masterpiece, if he does say so himself.

_And a noble mare,_

_Knightley and fair,_

_Let me run, let me hide,_

_For she is mighty,_

_And just a bit frightening!_

It’s fucking silent otherwise and he barely hears Geralt’s footsteps as the witcher stumbles back into their camp, a bloody dagger in one hand and dead animal in the other.

“Squirrel?” he asks, eyeing the small animal the witcher holds before rummaging through his bag for spices. Jaskier won’t be eating much, if at all, tonight. Shame. His stomach feels hollow but, alas, tis but the pain of a travelling artist.

Geralt grunts and sits against a sturdy log as carefully skins and disembowels the animal, chuckling as Jaskier turns his head away from the gore. The bard tugs his lute back onto his lap after he skewers and seasons the meat and soon enough, grease drips into the fire as the scent of the roast fills the air. Geralt shrugs when Jaskier declines and bites into the measly squirrel with the hunger to battle the gods.

Jaskier plays a little louder to hide the rumbling of his stomach and sings a little louder to hide his whimpers as he cramps around nothing. 

~~

They set off early the next day, and after a sleepless night on his thin bedroll, Jaskier’s quite happy at the prospect of a proper bed to rest on, along with mediocre food and pissy ale for nourishment. He chatters as he walks the trail, Geralt on top of Roach as they make haste on the road; he’s barely met with the man’s grunts and Jaskier fills the air with music rather than conversation, not wanting to make the man’s mood fouler.

The traven’s quite full, despite it being early evening. Jaskier looks upon the jolly folk that grace chairs around tables and determines them to be a viable audience. He barters with the travernkeeper, who, rather rudely, laughs in his face when he asks for a free meal. The bard only smiles wider and charms himself a discount and one free ale— better than nothing. Cheers, claps and stomps fill the room, attracting quite a crowd into the establishment, and Jaskier knows he’s been woefully under-paid. At least the townsfolk are more free with their coin than the travernkeeper with his goods and soon enough, the bard’s lute case has a good smattering of coins in and around it.

“Geralt!” He nearly collapses on the witcher, who barely glances at his slightly-sweaty, flushed bard, still in his excessively grumpy mood from the morning for some unknown reason. At least he doesn’t see the way Jaskier gripped the table to keep his balance as the room swayed and the way his body bowed over slightly in pain, hunger wracking through him.

He waves at the barmaid and rasps out an order for two stews and two ales. Geralt digs in without hesitancy, taking full advantage of Jaskier’s hard-earned meal as the bard eats at a pace that nearly matches the witcher’s.

They lean back in the booth, sipping at their ale, Geralt glowering and Jaskier flirting with the barmaid that passes their table far too often to be uninterested. “I’m going to get supplies,” Geralt grumbles out, downing the last of the horrid ale before slipping out of the booth. Jaskier hums, preoccupied with his own drink and his smirks to the barmaid. He won’t fall in bed with her tonight, he’s far too exhausted, so much that the thought of pleasure makes him taste ash in his mouth. He stumbles as he stands, and carefully ignores her glance as he tugs his lute-case’s strap over his shoulder and goes to climb the stairs. 

He nearly falls into the lumpy bed, a long moan leaving his mouth as he relaxes into the stiff mattress. Jaskier’d take it over the rough ground, with its pebbles and sticks, any day. The sun is still high in the sky as the bard’s eyes slip close into sleep.

~~

The sun’s set when Jaskier wakes. Drool drips between his parted lips and the bard wipes it away as he sits up on the bed, his hair defying gravity and good clothes rumpled. Geralt should have been back by now. He should probably have been back hours ago. The bard quickly tugs his boots on, feeling ridiculous for having allowed himself such deep rest when the witcher could’ve been stoned, spit on, or worse, driven out without him there to defend him.

He quickly runs down the stairs of the tavern and asks the nearest barmaid if she’s seen a witcher about. To his ever-shitty luck, it’s the same one he'd rejected yesterday. She walks away from him in an annoyed scowl, leaving him without answer. Shit, fuck, _shit_ , he should’ve insisted on going with Geralt, no matter how fucking exhausted he'd felt, he should’ve— Oh.

Hm.

His worry twists into jealousy as he catches Geralt’s head thrown back in quiet laughter, the _witch_ sitting opposite to him on the dingy tavern bench, looking out of place in the sorry establishment with her royal dress embellished with fine violet thread, her hair in perfect rivulets down her back. He begins walking over to them, only to hesitate and, eventually, halt as Geralt cups her cheek from across the table with a soft fondness that makes Jaskier’s heart stop. The look in his eyes as he leans forward to kiss her— he can’t bear to look at it, can't bear to watch. 

He slips out the door of the tavern and takes his lonely heart for a walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey babes im back on my bullshit !! Yes this is reupload of my first fic; I wanted to refine it but I didn't want to mess with my firstborn 'cause I feel like I've grown as a writer but also wanna preserve my first fic.
> 
> Here we are. I'll probably post ~once a week, and this work will contain more detail, better spelling/grammar, just overall ~refinement~.
> 
> So, tag along :D
> 
> Let me know what you thougt!!


	2. Don’t know if you love me or if you want me dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geraskier fuck, but it's not all happy ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> motions word rape; g fucks j w/o explicit consent

The night is rather cold this time of year. Fall has held her grip over the lands but Winter slowly creeps in and Jaskier shivers as he makes his way through mostly-empty streets. He passes closed shops and carts, whose owners are, without doubt, in the tavern where the bard should be on stage and singing his heart out. Instead, he’s out on the streets, a sour taste in his mouth and a rotten feeling in his stomach. 

He thinks of her in their bed; wrapped around Geralt, hips moving languidly over his own as she draws her pleasure out from the witcher. The image makes Jaskier grit his teeth and he stops to lean against a wall, exhausted all of a sudden, the thought of their coupling leeching every bit of the blissful rest he’d had. 

It’s just so unfair, isn’t it? He’s loved Geralt for years, stuck with him through months without contracts and coin. He’s fed him and put a roof over his head whenever they come across a town and Jaskier knows that the simple fact that he provides for his witcher doesn’t obligate Geralt to love him back but that isn’t it, is it?

It’s not the money he spends on the witcher that had given him hope of Geralt’s love, no. It had been how he offered to let Jaskier eat the first cut of whatever Geralt had hunted. It had been the small smile that the bard coaxed out of him with especially raunchy songs and how they shared a look when they were about to be cheated out of coin. The huddling under the same bedroll during colder nights and the gentle tapping of his boot to Jaskier’s songs around the fire, it was all of that.

He sighs, loud and long with no one to hear him.  _ Gods _ , he’s tired.

Of course, all that had been before  _ she’d _ come along and had crushed the little hope that Jaskier had begun to nurture in his chest.

He begins walking down the cobblestone street again, hands stuffed into the pockets of his breeches. 

She’d walked into their lives in a literal whirlwind, eyes glowing and soul greedy for an ancient being’s powers. 

Yennefer of Vengerberg had been downright terrifying. And to Geralt, she had seemed perfect. So like him, beautiful, feared, powerful, straight to the point, and  _ everything that Jaskier was not. _ Jaskier doubted that Geralt even saw him as a person— he was a doll of a bard: silly, playful, reckless, stupid.

And yet, before it all, Jaskier had  _ hoped.  _

He longed for the days filled with uncomplicated flirting, sly smiles, and easy care for one another, the easygoing times he’d had with his witcher after their rough start. He’d felt young, been lovesick, an arrogant son of a bitch and he’d thought he’d have all the time to court his witcher, unaware that an evil fucking sorceress was going to get her clutches on his dear heart.

Clouds slowly lighten into soft blues as the sun rises. He supposes it’s time to head back, she never stays till the morning and he’s given her plenty of time to leave; even the streets are filled with common folk heading for work or stumbling home, drunk. It’s time enough.

He walks through the tavern door, nodding at the barkeep before he makes his way upstairs. Hesitation be damned; he opens the door after a couple knocks, the rusty key turning in the keyhole, and the wooden door swings open with a creak. 

The ratty curtains are closed and early morning light shines dully through the cloth, giving Jaskier enough visibility to see Geralt, his hair in disarray and his clothes rumpled, hunched over himself on the edge of the bed, Yennefer apparently long gone.

“Geralt?” There’s a deep sorrow in the air, he doesn’t need witcher senses to know the way it permeates the room. He gets no reply, not even a nod, much less a grunt. “What’s wong?” He kneels in front of the man, careful not to touch him. He knows the witcher won’t tell him, that he’s not trusted enough to be told.

He sighs softly and begins to rise to his feet. “Come on, then, a good contract ‘ought to cheer you up and I overheard the alderman talking of something or the oth—” and he’s being pulled into a kiss, breath stolen from his lungs as Geralt shoves him against a wall, teeth nipping at his lips, body pressed against his.

Well fuck.

Jaskier’s breathless as Geralt pulls away from the kiss and turns him to face the wall, taking to his knees as he pulls down the bard’s breeches as his hands dig into the soft skin of his arse. “Geralt, what the fu—” the bard’s forced to break off into a moan as the witcher bites into his arse-cheek, sucking and kissing it till Jaskier’s sure that it’ll leave a horrid (beautiful) bruise.

He trails kisses from his cheek and the kissing and sucking is quickly redirected to Jaskier’s hole as the bard’s knees buckle under the onslaught of pleasure and shock. A high whine escapes his lips as Geralt licks him out relentlessly, spitting onto his hole as Jaskier pants, pressed against the wall. He can feel the man’s spit cool in the chill air of the room, shivers as he feels the witcher shift behind him, standing before capturing his lips and continuing their violent kiss.

He probably looks ridiculous, neck craned to meet Geralt’s lips, his own probably bruised, probably bleeding. His back is arched and arse’s stuck out as the witcher hastily unties the leather cord around his trousers, his cock heavy and hot as he ruts against Jaskier’s hole, cheeks spread in a bruising grip. It’s rough and on the side of too much friction but  _ Geralt is touching him _ . Kissing him, nearly fucking him and Jaskier would’ve cried if there was any time to in their rough touches.

He keens as Geralt kisses down his neck, and Jaskier hastily unbuttons his doublet and tugs off his undershirt before the witcher rips it off to expose his shoulders. Geralt works marks into his newly-exposed skin as he holds his bard, fingers digging into slim hips so harshly that it makes Jaskier giddy with the idea of having the witcher’s finger-shaped bruises for days. His own cock bobs betweens his legs, his forearms bracing against the wall as he leaks precum, desperate to be touched. “Ger—” he’s cut off by the witcher’s breathy moans as he spills over the small of Jaskier’s back, a soft name that is  _ distinctly _ not his own steals all the air left in the bard’s lungs, his arousal forgotten in the name of heartbreak. 

_ “Yen.”  _

The witcher collapses against him with the sigh of her name and Jaskier’s mind reels from where he’s pinned.

Yen. Yennefer.

He’s feeling so much that he’s not quite sure what to express. Anger. But there’s hurt. There’s betrayal and the sliver of hope that’d managed to sneak in again that was now all but crushed under Geralt’s boot, spit on, and kicked off a ledge and into the River Ismena for good measure.

Jaskier feels so much and so intensely that all he can do when Geralt gets off of him and leaves without a word, is turn and numbly slide down the wall, the witcher’s cum smearing against his back as he sits, shaking knees drawn up to his chest.  _ Yen. Fucking Yen. _

Even stronger the numbness, he feels violated, taken advantage of.

Geralt had taken him without warning, without explicit consent and if Jaskier was a little less in love with him and had enjoyed their fucking a little less, he would’ve classified the touches as  _ rape _ . Suddenly, Jaskier feels a thrill of fear he’s never felt before as he realizes the raw power Geralt holds. Sure, he’s  _ known _ that he’s a witcher and has immense physical strength, he’s seen it on hunts and fights but Jaskier had always figured that his friend wouldn’t use it on  _ him _ . 

Now, his body mottled with bruises, his heart wrecked and his chest tight, he’s not so sure. A part of him doesn’t believe that Geralt would’ve forced him if Jaskier  _ truly _ hadn’t wanted, but that part of him shrinks smaller with each minute.

He’d fucking wanted it, he can’t deny that, though. He’d wanted it, wanted  _ him _ and that scares Jaskier the most, knowing he’d let Geralt touch him again and again and pretend that Geralt was touching him because he wanted him and not because the witcher was  _ using _ him. 

He stands on wobbly legs, biting down a sob as he feels the cold of Geralt’s cum raise goosebumps on his skin. Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck. _ He hastily wraps a blanket around himself and catches a maid cleaning the hall to bring him a bath before he shuts the door and collapses against it.

His face is grim as he tries to sort himself out; but what’s the point of sorting his feelings out? It’s not as if he’ll magically love Geralt less. A bitter chuckle escapes his throat and he’s grateful for the tub and buckets of hot water that force him to stand, thank, and smile the maids that enter and exit his room, a distraction from his turmoil— but again, what’s the point of thinking about it, really. It’s not as if Geralt cares enough to talk about it. They’ll go back and pretend that it never happened, that nothing has changed, what else is there to say? He sits in the hot water and tries to forget the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lemme know what ya thought <33


	3. Love is fatal (won’t you give it a chance)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yen fucks Geral, Geralt fucks Jaskier, and they're all miserable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in end notes

Geralt rushes into the room after Yennefer, her black hair tangled in his hand as she presses her lips to his, bond forcing her to be desperate for his kiss. He leads her to the bed, palms tracing down her sides and moans softly as Yenn palms him through his breeches before deftly undoing the chords that tie it.

They've been away from each other for far too long and it shows in the way they touch, harried, desperate.

He tugs her dress over her head, continuing the kiss as he lays her down on the bed. How he’s missed her, her fire and passion, her violet eyes and her plush lips painted a violent red.

It’s heavenly— he’s between her legs, kissing, licking as she intertwines her fingers into his hair, tugging, urging him on with each writhe on the sheets and each sound from her lips. She tastes sweet, pure as he pleasure’s her, and he feels as if he’s on fire, burning in the best of ways as she comes undone under his ministrations.

He lines his cock up with her cunt, about to push in when he finds himself on his back, a gasp choking out of him as she seats herself onto his cock without hesitation or warning. Fucking hell, has he missed this, missed her, and he can’t decide if it’s all too much or far too little.

They fuck till the sun threatens to rise and then for longer still until they both collapse onto the lumpy mattress, chests heaving, lips swollen red. She’s beautiful, with a pleased and satisfied smile on her face, her body still covered with a thin layer of sweat from their coupling. Without caring for the implications, Geralt leans in to kiss her again, a sigh escaping his parted lips as she kisses back, soft and languid but pulling away before it grows loving.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she mutters, her voice tainted with bitterness, the scent of her satisfaction giving way to misery and anger. “The cursed djinn makes you feel these things, I’m bound to you. You have to remember that what you’re feeling isn’t real, Geralt.” Oh, but isn’t it? Couldn’t it be? If they’d just stop fighting their bond, they could have each other, they could be happy. He craves her acceptance of his heart but he knows that he’ll never have it. Geralt bites his tongue and replies with a brief hum as she gets redressed

It’s too little, he decides. Much too little.

She leaves, and eventually, he tugs his clothes back on and sits at the edge of the bed, too weighed down by his heart to move.

~~

Jaskier comes back, smelling miserable and angry and Geralt finds himself  _ so fucking tired  _ of that smell, the scent of sour, rotting grapes and burning wood choking him till he can’t—he shoves Jaskier against the wall and kisses him and now he can finally breathe as the overpowering scent is replaced with shock and  _ want _ . Jaskier wants this, to be taken and fucked rough, and he sighs happily when they separate for breath; Geralt’s heard the satisfied sound through thin walls of multiple taverns many times over the seasons they’ve spent traveling together. He just wants to make  _ someone _ happy, forget about his shitty love life for a moment and just take and give, as simple as that.

He gives, licking into Jaskier’s arse, biting his cheek, marking him with bruises he knows the other man craves, loves. He takes, rutting against Jaskier’s hole, listening to the bard’s sounds, his beautiful voice in cut-off moans and whines, and it’s just the two of them, the world gone to haze around them. Simplicity at its finest, two close friends fucking.If only it wasn’t Jaskier he was marking, if only it was  _ Yen _ underneath him— and with that thought, he stills, spilling over the small of his bard’s back.

He only realizes he’d said her name aloud when the happy scent of chamomile permeating from the bard turns so bitter so suddenly that Geralt can taste it in the back of his mouth. The acrid smell is a combination of so many other scents, so many other emotions that the witcher’s senses are overwhelmed.

He slips out of the room wordlessly, shame coating his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: g takes j w/o explicit consent (j is willing but is sad @ the end)
> 
> Yikes, geralt, what've you done? lemme know what you thought!


	4. All the lights couldn’t put out the dark (running through my heart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier gets a bath, a wound, and a nap (and a newfound fear).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor wound, blood mention

Jaskier submerges himself into the bath, steaming hot water turning his skin a bright pink as he holds his breath under it, looking up at the ceiling. He feels empty, his chest void of heartbeat, of air, eyes unblinking and not a part of him moves; there is not so much as a twitch. It’s blissful. He feels free of his memories, as if he’s left his body, leaving all of the confusion and abject hurt behind. His soul floats in the water, existing and nonexistent all at once.

Minutes later, he rushes back to life in a chaos of splashes and wet gasps as his lungs fight to fill themselves properly, water dripping from his hair into the tub as his chest heaves. He grasps the soap, scrubbing roughly at bare skin till the flush of warm water turns into an angry red, his frustration and confusion made evident in the vigorous cleansing of his skin.

He wants to be rid of it, his pain, his love, his heart, he wants it  _ gone _ because it hurts far too much for him to handle. Jaskier falls against the wall of the bath, a wet sob escaping his lips and he feels as if he’s choking, though he’s above the water now.

He’s loved him for a _hundred_ _years_. 

It certainly fucking feels like it, at least.

Jaskier had been so young when he’d met the witcher, what had  _ happened _ to him? He feels like the shell of the man he used to be. It annoys him to no end that he’s incapable of loving as freely as he’d once been able to, ruined for the world with his longing for a man that treated him like  _ scum. _ Numbness turns into sadness and that into anger, and all Jaskier can do is sit and feel and wish he was underwater again, existing and nonexistent all at once instead of feeling oh  _ so much _ that it makes his head spin.

He’d thought that Geralt had kissed him because he’d wanted him. Thought that he wanted to finally give Jaskier what he’d been asking for for  _ years _ . Love is a curse, Jasksier finds himself thinking as he finally stands, bruises aching, skin scratched red.

Love is a curse and he never wants to feel it again.

He dresses. There’s a soft knock at the door as he buttons his doublet, all the way up to the base of his neck, feeling unlike himself, altogether too exposed and too raw. He opens the door.

Geralt. 

Jaskier’s anger flares as the man doesn’t even bother to look at him, staring at his own feet instead, but the traitorous love that swells in his chests at seeing the man come back to him— oh does he hate himself for feeling it. “You were right. Kikimore. Hurry up.” Apparently, neither of them feel like themselves because Geralt is inviting him to a  _ hunt _ ?

Jaskier wants to speak, to say  _ something, _ but words get stuck in his throat as he looks at Geralt, remembering his body pressed against his own, his hands, his  _ strength. _ He feels fear stir in his chest as his body stiffens and he takes an instinctive step back. He plays it off by going to get Geralt’s bag of potions and quietly locks the door, handing it to his friend.

As they walk downstairs, he isn’t sure if Geralt notices the absence of his songbook and his lute. Jaskier feels devoid of interest, and composing an epic of adventure and action in Geralt’s name is the last thing he wants to do right now.

The air is deathly still as they make their way towards the forest, where mucky ground soon gives way to swampland. It nearly feels foreboding, but the bard isn’t sure what it could possibly foreshadow. He feels as if everything’s gone to shit already.

~~ 

Jaskier flinches awake and realizes he’s moving, though his legs feel numb and are nowhere near to the ground. “Geralt?” There’s a grunt from somewhere above him; all he can see now is the forest floor and a heavily-muscled back. “Why am I floating upside down?” He’s only met with another grunt. He twists, trying to right himself but the arm that holds him down only tightens around him further. “Geralt?” He’s ignored, even though he’s sure the witcher can hear his heart race. “Fuck,  _ fuck, _ let me down, you absolute—” he tries to kick out with a leg, his hands hitting the witcher’s back wherever he can reach.

“Geralt!” He suspects he’s only set down because the witcher can hear the panic in his voice but as soon as his feet find solid ground, the rest of his body pitches forward as if it too wants to make acquaintance with the forest floor. Luckily, he’s met with strong hands instead, one sliding over his waist and the other against the tree the bard leans against so that Jaskier doesn’t fall sideways, shifting his weight onto his uninjured leg. He swallows, wanting to lean into the other’s touch, he’s  _ so _ close, his lips right there— “You hit your head. Wound on your right leg. Told you to stay back.” Jaskier nods. Of course, it had been his fault, always getting into trouble left and right. Duly, he wonders if Geralt’s forgotten what complete sentences are.

“Right. I guess I’ll need a healer, then.” He realizes that it isn’t just a simple wound on his leg, but a gash from his hip, trailing down to the lower part of his thigh, his trousers leg cut off hastily. He sighs, grieving the loss of his breeches and dreading the walk back town in his sorry state. An arm slips over his arse and he finds himself being lifted up again, shock coursing through him along with a healthy amount of arousal, but the fear—well that was new. He realizes with a sinking stomach that he doesn’t trust Geralt as he used to, not after he’d simply taken Jaskier. He shudders, struggling to get away again. “I can walk you know, I’m not some silly lamb that needs taking care of,” he mumbles.

His knees buckle in pain soon after his first step and he finds himself thrown over Geralt’s shoulder again. 

It turns out, he does need taking care of after all.

When they finally reach the clearing they’ve left Roach in, the witcher sews the wound shut, packs it with poultice, and finishes by wrapping it in bandages with gentle hands (if Jaskier had the energy for creativity right now he’d say Geralt was touching him in a rather caring manner) as Jaskier swears colorfully. He’s then carefully set upon Roach for Geralt to lead the way back to town, forgoing the healer for now and praying to Melitele for a healing without infection. By the time the sun sets, the two of them are in bed, both having decent coin and a hearty meal in their stomachs. Jaskier is too exhausted to acknowledge the numbness of his emotions and cuddles back into his witcher’s chest, settling in for a night of comfort, a night of pretending.

Jaskier doesn’t sleep for shit that night as Geralt’s leg nudges between his own and his arm thrown over the bard’s waist. They set off on the path next morning and if the bard’s voice is replaced by early morning songbirds, and Geralt’s glances to Jaskier are filled with annoyance rather than carefully cultivated indifference, well, neither of them say a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought!!!


	5. I watched the world fall from your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt attempts an apology and Jaskier gets injured.

Geralt’s nose twitches, the scent of rot irritating his senses. The idea of Jaskier smelling of fear is so foreign to Geralt that he doesn't understand where the scent is coming from. There’s no one around and surely, his companion, who hadn’t shown fear even when the witcher had punched him so cruelly on their first day together, couldn’t be the source of such a scent.

But as Jaskier takes a step back, his heart beating louder, quicker, Geralt realizes it  _ is _ him who emits the emotion. The realization that the only human who’d never been hesitant around the witcher is afraid of Geralt now—it sends him reeling. He bites his tongue, and wordlessly takes the potions bag outstretched from the bard’s arm, hoping that this sad attempt at an apology disguised as an invitation to shadow a hunt will revert their relationship back to normal.

Things are awkward between them as they head towards the swamp. Jaskier is empty-handed save for the occasional picking at his own nails. It’s a nervous habit and something cold stirs in the bottom of his stomach when Geralt realizes that his bard is silent. Not a hum or a mutter of lyrics, or even the unrelenting questions about the hunt that the witcher usually ignores. He doesn’t even have his composition book to take notes and jot inspiration down on and it puts Geralt on edge at how un-Jaskier-like his bard is behaving—he’s sure even a doppler would be better at playing Jaskier than the bard right now. With a sense of dread, he realizes that simply inviting Jaskier to a hunt won’t be enough of an olive branch and finds himself still with the thought that, in his attempt to make the bard feel better and lighten his misery and anger with a fuck, he’s ruined him past saving, past fixing.

~~ 

The kikimore puts up more of a vicious fight than Geralt would have preferred and Geralt has very high standards of what a vicious fight is. Its legs move wildly as it screeches, swamp mud dripping off of it and into the witcher’s eyes as he attacks. He ducks and stabs its underbelly and it lashes out in pain. The wound is not nearly deep enough to slow it, much less kill it, and only proves to further enrage it. His skin feels too tight—this is taking too long and something is going to go horribly wro—”Hey, hideous!”

Fuck. He duly wonders if it’s possible to jinx things by simply thinking them. He hears an object, a rock presumably, whistle through the air and bounce off the kikimore uselessly. “What’s your secret to looking so revolting! You beat your head against a tree for a beauty routine or is that all your mother gave you?” The kikimore’s attention shifts with a roar to the suicidal fucking bard and with it diverted, Geralt runs up to stab it clean through, dragging his sword through its body to fell it. With one last angry swipe, it falls to the earth to slowly sink into the swampwater.

He finds the bard unconscious, having hit his head when the kikimore swiped at his leg; his blood slipping idly into the ground.

Fuck, indeed. 

~~

He tightens his arm around Jaskier’s legs as the man struggles in his grasp and there. The rancid scent of fear souring Jaskier’s scent so is heavily noticeable. Then the bard hits at him, as uselessly as the rock had hit the kikimore, but Geralt sets him down nonetheless, holding him steadily against a tree to keep the man from tipping forward again.

The touch is quite nice, actually. Jaskier’s not curved like women are, but he’s soft nonetheless and Geralt finds himself wanting to touch more, to lean in and—he shakes his head minutely as the thoughts fill his mind. He doesn’t want Jaskier, he’ll never want an annoying, silly little bard who smiles like a fool and is filled with too much joy—he has a powerful sorceress he’s wooing and he’s in no need of romance from Jaskier of all people, for Melitele’s sake.

He looks down at the man’s leg, glancing at the blood that trickles down, swallowing guilt as he realizes that it’s his own fault that Jaskier’s in this state. “You hit your head. Wound on your right leg. Told you to stay back.” Jaskier sighs and Geralt shifts, lifting him up into his arms and carrying the wounded man a few steps before he’s smacked and told to set him down. Much to Jaskier’s annoyance, Geralt is soon back to carrying him, the bard sitting in his arms with a resigned sigh and nothing else. 

Resigned. Is that what Geralt’s made his bright Jaskier? Resigned? Quiet? His head hangs in despair as they walk towards town, Jaskier sat upon Roach after the witcher patches up his wound.

~~

Geralt visits the alderman before buying dinner for the both of them. He carries Jaskier up the stairs, one hand under his knees, the other supporting the bard’s shoulders befoe carefully sets him down on the bed, wiping himself down with water from a bucket in the corner of the room before he strips the both of them down to their smallclothes. His breath catches in his throat as he takes in Jaskier’s mottled skin. He’s covered in bruises from their coupling and Geralt is riddled with guilt as regret fills his chest and he rests at the edge of the bed, shame rising as he can’t help but to feel satisfied, some primal part of him happy that the bard is marked as his, a feeling he doesn’t understand

Half-asleep, the witcher intertwines his body with Jaskier’s, his arm slung over the man’s hip, his palm against the bard’s chest to keep him close, and Geralt’s leg between the man’s own, cautious of his injuries. He falls into a content rest after the stress of the day, and the heat of his bard held so close to him comforts his nightmares.

~~

They return to the path the next morning after a breakfast Jaskier barely touches. The man looks like death in the early morning light, deep circles under his eyes, his skin pale. His neck is exposed to the room, serving as a reminder of what Geralt had done to his bard in an attempt to fix, in an attempt to find relief and it only serves to throw back into his face how not simple two very close friends fucking is. 

Morning comes too soon for either of their liking, bed warm and blankets not too scratchy. Roach walks slowly alongside Jaskier on the Path, who limps, refusing to ride her. The songbirds sing their melodies as his own lark remains silent; Geralt glances at him with worry as they journey on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought!


	6. It’s so hard to blame you (‘cause you’re so damn beautiful)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier run into Yennefer again. As my beta so perfectly put it: Jaskier needs a huge consent cookie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dubious consent because of sex curse

It’s a few months before they encounter Yennefer again.

Geralt’s irritation-filled sidelong glances have finally become fewer in occurrence and Jaskier hopes it means that the witcher will continue to allow him to travel alongside with him rather than ditch him without warning. There’s a contract—apparently, some witch had taken control of the town’s mayor, laying destruction to local trade and politics in her wake. Of course, Geralt, who swears not to get involved in the matters of humankind, gets involved.

Jaskier chatters as they make their way towards the mayor’s villa and barely flinches when his friend knocks a man out with his coin bag, a low whistle escaping his lips as he glances at the now-passed out greedy fucker. Jaskier’s back to himself, composing, chattering, singing his songs and bringing merry to wherever he goes; it had taken the bard a couple nights of nightmares and others of hidden anger and hurt to begin warming himself up to the witcher again. He’s sure Geralt could smell the turbulent emotions on him, they’d both ignored it, hoping time would take Jaskier’s pain away. It hasn’t, but he’s put it behind him.

~~ 

She looks grand, strung up in lace and leather, lips painted red and eyes lined with kohl. If Jaskier was a different man, he would have surely been interested in her. He had been, actually, when they’d first met, though he’d found the sorceress terrifying. But any reverence he’d had for Yennefer had dissipated when he’d seen her greed nearly destroy her along with the jealousy that Jaskier had felt when Geralt had instantly grown fond of her, though the fact that she nearly killed them both didn’t help her case.

Bodies move around them as they walk in, though there’s a clear pathway that leads to Yenn, who sits on an ornate armchair, leaving no doubt as to who was commanding the room. The air smells like a mess of sex and lust and Jaskier finds himself under the spell, his skin growing uncomfortably warm as he tries to defy it. He hisses as smoke rises from his arm, his skin giving way to burns and is then quickly pulled by the collar into the mass of writhing bodies by some unknown hand, the burn smoothing away into nothing as a man kisses him languidly, stripping him slowly as he does so. He finds himself undressed, moaning into the man’s mouth as he loosely fists at Jaskier’s cock, his hand slick with oil while the other rests on the bard’s hip.

Though he can’t pull away, considering how the spell would burn him until he was a dead man, he positions them so he can see Geralt, who stares back at him with an expression the bard can’t read. Someone comes up behind him and Jaskier is pressed between the two people, someone fingering his arse, loosening him up while they use their other hand to play with his nipples, drawing a breathless moan out of him as his eyes flutter and his lips part against the man kissing him. He feels loved, the touches soft, though it’s nothing but lust, nothing but a curse on a town that that  _ witch _ placed upon them. 

Jaskier watches as Geralt turns away, his features twisting as if he’s smelt something rancid, seen something that’s disgusted him and the bard belatedly realizes that his friend’s reaction is directed at his body. He hates himself for the tears that gather in the corner of his eyes as humiliation burns through him and turns his head away to capture the man pressed up behind him into a kiss, fighting away the memories the action brings.

He can’t help the slow moan that escapes his parted lips as a cock pushes into him, fucking him without hurry, as if they have all the time in the world at their disposal, the man in front of him now on his knees, sucking Jaskier’s cock in time with slow thrusts of the man behind the bard. He hates how much he loves it and turns his eyes back to Geralt, who fucks into Yen at a much more rapid pace than the rest of the room, and Jaskier finds himself pretending its him who he’s fucking into, and not her. He spills into the stranger’s mouth as his witcher stills, buried inside Yennefer. Jaskier’s still being fucked into and is so fucking sensitive but pays it no mind, heart in his throat as Geralt converses with Yenn, the two of them shoulder-to-shoulder in a comfortable company that makes him  _ ache _ .

His arse is still slick with oil when the spell is broken. The crowd dissipates quickly and Jaskier finds himself redressing in a hurry as Geralt makes his way over to the exit, Yennefer long gone. “You alright?” He asks, splaying a smile, “I must admit, that was quite lovely, those men had the  _ softest  _ hands, I really should ask what they use for a hand cream—” He’s cut off when Geralt turns to him and tugs at his just-donned shirt, slipping the doublet off his shoulders. He doesn’t want this, _ he can’t do this _ —he undoes his own breeches and smallclothes before working on Geralt’s clothes as he guides them to a now-abandoned sofa. The witcher looks away from him as they undress and sit next to each other as still air surrounds them.

Jaskier sighs. “Close your eyes,” he whispers. Slowly, he leans forward, pressing his lips against Geralt's in a soft brush before cupping his cheek as he deepens the kiss. He knows he doesn’t smell of lilac and gooseberries, that he does not have hair both long and perfect. He knows he’s the wrong shape, has the wrong parts, but he can try, at least. He can’t stand the look of devastation on Geralt’s usually-inexpressive face and he’ll ask what caused it later, around a campfire far away from this place, where they’ll pretend they’d never touched and Geralt will pretend he didn’t hear him.

For now, Jaskier slowly leans back, Geralt mimicking the movement, unwilling to separate their lips from each other as the bard quietly tips a bottle of oil that’s been left around onto his palm. They righten, and he stokes the witcher’s cock, their lips still on their unhurried rhythm. He knows this is what Geralt wants with Yenn, uncomplicated softness, fondness, and for now, Jaskier can provide enough of an illusion to take the edge of the craving off.

His own cock lies half-hard against his thigh as he guides them back, laying down on the loveseat as Geralt follows him, hovering above Jaskier by supporting himself on his elbow. The other hand’s thumb is hooked into Jaskier’s mouth as he rocks into him with gentleness Jaskier has never seen from him. He gently runs his thumb over Jaskier’s lips, smearing them with the man’s own spit, and the bard’s chest aches as he keeps in his soft moans. He’s kissing him again, large fingers intertwined in the bard’s short hair, breathing against his lips as they take their time, Geralt in his dreams and Jaskier in the best nightmare he’s ever had.

He arcs his back and bites harshly down on his lips, arms going to grip Geralt’s shoulders as the witcher angles his hips just right, barely muffling the sound in time to prevent breaking the illusion. Jaskier’s chest heaves as the witcher’s eyes flutter at the scent of blood and the suddenness of the movement. The bard splays his palms over Geralt’s cheeks, rubbing his thumbs against his cheekbones in comfort, letting him know that it’s okay, that they’re okay and that he can continue pretending.

They rock together in silence for a while as the witcher kisses down Jaskier’s throat, across his shoulder while the bard lovingly trails his fingers down Geralt’s back, down his sides. Soon, Geralt spills inside him with a soft groan, still fucking into Jaskier through his orgasm. He’s beautiful and Jaskier aches for him to open his eyes, to know the way they look when Geralt peaks in pleasure. Instead, he inches towards the edge of the ornate couch and lets his witcher fall into the space between the backrest and the bard before he wraps his arms around the witcher, holding him as they both doze off into sleep, his dreams filled with amber eyes.


	7. Let not them hear the mutterings of all your fears (the fluttering of all your wings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting Yennefer.

They’re met with a contract nearly as soon as they step foot into the town. A group of people approach them, and rather than reeking of fear, they smell of desperation and loss. Geralt muses that one day, he’ll learn not to meddle in the affairs of humans, that one day, his heart will be strong enough to resist the young man that pleads with him to return his husband, and all the other townsfolk who miss their wives and spouses and siblings. One day, he won’t be such a weak fool. One day, but not today, it seems. He takes the coin and sets off with Roach, careful not to leave Jaskier behind.

Lately, the bard has been… fragile. Geralt can see it in the way Jaskier scrambles when they pack up camp, in the way he inquires where the witcher is going whenever he’s about to leave the man’s sight. He thinks that Jaskier looks rather sad when he thinks Geralt can’t see him, and even if Geralt can’t see him, he can certainly smell the thick air of rotting, waterlogged plants that surrounds him. So he’s been more careful with his bard, toning down the jabs he takes at him, being careful to avoid hurting him. 

He insists Jaskier ride with him to the villa, citing that they’ll only be slowed down if Jaskier travels by foot, but in reality, Geralt knows of the blisters that line his friend’s feet and the deep ache in the man’s bones—they had both been looking forward to rest at the tavern but the townsfolk’s issues had taken greater importance.

~~

He can smell her before they even enter the gates of the villa, lilac and gooseberries carried by the soft breeze of the evening, the scent of sex thick in the air just behind it. He can hear them, the moans, the pants, the skin against skin and half wants to turn away, not having the energy to deal with the situation. But, they’re here already; the townsfolk need their issue fixed and the witcher doubts they’ll be greeted with open arms back at the tavern if they go back without having solved it.

Geralt swings the coin pouch up the man’s face, knocking him out cold. He’s rather satisfied to hear Jaskier’s low whistle behind him, the scent of fear that had made his stomach feel achingly cold only recently lessened, though not completely gone. It had taken so long for Jaskier to return to his comfortable chatter, even longer to return to his thoughtless touching of Geralt that the witcher had worried he’d never have his bard back, that he’d lost him forever in the desperation that he’d felt on that horrid morning months ago.

He ties Roach to a tree, petting her down and promising her a proper stable and top-notch treats as soon as he finishes the contract, and walks into the villa, Jaskier trailing behind him. 

~~ 

The smell of magic and sex is nearly enough to drown out the scent of charring skin. He only notices that Jaskier’s under the spell when a man drags his bard into the masses by the collar, kissing him without a care in the world. Geralt watches as he’s undressed, and notes with displeasure that the bruises that had marked Jaskier as his own are no longer there, unseen by the man who fists his bard’s cock slowly. Though he doesn’t have any right, any claim over Jaskier, the witcher feels his face twist in jealous anger, even more eager to meet with Yennefer and get this ordeal done with.

He walks up to her, only to be met with uninterested lavender eyes, shining with boredom as she tortures, wanting for something she can never have. “Yenn, stop this.” She only stands to meet him, lips parted as she looks up at him. “No,” she whispers against his lips, pulling him into a kiss.

Her trousers are quickly unbuttoned and pulled down and Geralat’s cock is worked out of his leather breeches, stroked to hardness as they kiss. She leans over the armchair, her back against the seat of the couch and her legs angled up and around the witcher’s hips to drag him closer. “Gods, Yenn,” he mumbles, pushing into her slowly, “we can’t keep doing this.” They keep telling each other this but they both knew it only landed on deaf ears.

She’s surrounded by power, her eyes alight with some sort of mild madness now, and her body is warm as he fucks into her, much faster than the rest of the room. She won’t give it to him, the sensual rhythm of sex he desperately craves, because they both know it’s not the  _ taking things slow _ Geralt wants, it’s the intimacy. With intimacy comes vulnerability and love and Yenn will never give him that.

He stills as he spills into her, her own breath coming in short pants, her shirt rucked up around her waist from the awkward angle. This act of sex wasn’t about pleasure, just a desperate mimicry of coupling to bear child. He sighs as he tucks himself back in and sits down on the floor, and soon, she joins him. “You need to let them go. The fact that you cannot bear a child is not a reason to keep these people here.” She looks up at him and for a moment, he sees the desperation he’s seen often in his own eyes reflected in hers. He closes his eyes and kisses her softly, a gentle brush of their lips.

She pulls away from him, and by the time he opens his eyes, she’s gone, and the now-disgruntled crowd makes its way back towards their homes. Geralt takes a deep breath of her fading scent, feeling the weight of their relationship wear on him as he sighs, his head in his hands. He takes a moment to feel, to breathe, before standing and walking towards the exit.

Jaskier joins him, a bright smile on his face, no doubt delighted by the attention he’s received because what are bards but whores with pretty voices. He sighs. That’s not quite fair, he knows, but he’s so tired, of Yennefer, of his stupid emotions. Geralt doesn’t bother with a reply when Jaskier asks after his well-being and barely listens as the bard yaps on. They’re nearly out the door when he begins tugging at Jaskier’s clothes. He’s not sure it’s a conscious decision, Geralt needs something and Jaskier would give him  _ anything _ if he only asked. This is a question, the pulling his shirt from where it's tucked into his breeches, the slipping the doublet off his shoulders. He asks.

And Jaskier, beautiful Jaskier, his beautiful, sacrificial lark, says  _ yes. _

~~

It’s everything Geralt’s wanted. With his eyes closed and his memory so sharp, he can  _ feel _ Yennefer beneath him, pliant, wanting, radiating trust and the love she’d kept fighting, though it’s a pained, hurt, scent he smells mixed with chamomile equally strong instead of the lilac and gooseberries. He can feel her eyes on him, nonetheless, soft with adoration and the witcher yearns to open his own and look down into the beautiful violet, knowing he can’t or he’d lose it all. The sharp scent of blood and the jerk of the body beneath him nearly causes his illusion to end but soft hands with calloused fingertips smooth over Geralt’s cheekbones, palms warm as he’s told that he’s okay. That they’re okay.

  
Eventually, he spills inside the body beneath him and collapses beside it, held by the body as it radiates comfort. As he dozes, Geralt’s dreams of cornflower blue eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

Jaskier wakes with Geralt still curled up in his arms. The bastard’s beautiful, the weight that plagues him is gone and his face is relaxed. Like this, the witcher almost looks god-like, morning light reflecting off of bone-white— _ bone-white _ , he’ll have to use that in a song sometime—hair, painting him with an ethereal glow. He looks satisfied, content almost and the bard finds his heart in his throat as Geralt  _ snuggles closer _ , his head neatly resting atop Jaskier’s chest. It makes it so incredibly hard to resist placing a soft peck to the witcher’s forehead, and even harder for Jaskier to pull away completely. He resolves himself, half-pinned under Geralt, to an awkward morning knowing there’s no way he’ll get away from underneath the witcher without waking him. They’re still unclothed but Geralt is so warm and the sofa so soft that the only discomfort Jasksier feels is his arm numbing at an alarming rate. Nonetheless, he strokes down Geralt’s hair, rubbing his fingers through the fine strands as he hums a lullaby, enjoying the intimacy of the moment. 

He feels the man stiffen beside him and freezes, his hands still intertwined in Geralt’s hair. “Your hair’s a tangled mess, Geralt, how you’ve still got sticks in is beside me, I thought I combed it out just the other day—” And fuck. Fuck, the  _ look _ in Geralt’s eyes. They glow in the bright sunlight and stare into Jaskier’s own, wordless as they search for  _ something _ . “Sorry,” he mumbles, starting to shift away, only for Geralt to tighten the grip around his waist, hold him there, hold him close.

He feels panic seep into his chest, eyes wide as his heat races. Is he going to leave again? Jaskier  _ can’t _ , but this situation they’re in right now has proven to him that it doesn't matter to the bard what he wants, just that he can give himself to Geralt. Nonetheless, his muscles freeze with a horror he can't pin to a source, afraid both of this newfound fear and the fact that, even worse, the fear is somehow related to Geralt touching him and holding him down.

He doesn’t quite understand what’s happening as Geralt leans up to kiss him, his head tilted and eyes open before slipping closed and Jaskier fucking  _ scrambles _ to get away. He can handle illusions, he can handle lies, but the bard can’t take being led on, apparently. It would be too much, he knows he wouldn’t survive Geralt loving  _ him _ just because he wants to love  _ someone else _ since Yennefer doesn’t love him back. Jaskier falls off the sofa with a thud and an oof, quickly redressing, “Poor Roach, we’ve left our mighty mare out all night, oh as if she doesn’t hate me enough—” he nearly trips as he half-runs to leave the accursed building, trying to protect what’s left of his too-fast heart.

~~

They walk back to the town, Roach in between them as Jaskier’s brain won’t stop fucking thinking and his lips won’t stop moving in an attempt to fill the awkward silence in between them. He can’t keep his mind off the kiss, off of how close he’d been, the look in Geralt’s eyes that had made it seem like the man had actually wanted him, liquid gold so tempting that Jaskier had nearly given in. He ignores the slight panic that still plagues him, chalking it up to how  _ Geralt had nearly kissed him _ and the emotions that come with your best friend-slash-unrequited love of twenty years  _ nearly kissing _ you

They make it back to the tavern by sundown, awkward silence hounding them as they walk. Jaskier picks up his lute, giving it a good strum before he puts on a face and peacocks himself around the room. The tavern’s full, families have been returned and Jaskier winks as he sees the young man in the background kiss his husband as the bard launches into  _ Toss A Coin _ . Whistles and cheers rise up as few venture to pat Geralt’s shoulder (to be met with a scowl, of course, but the merrymakers only laugh and sing lounder). 

  
That night, Jaskier finds a pretty man, muscles nearly large enough to match Geralt’s and with enough interest to fill his time and sinks into his rooms, leaving Geralt with but a word of  _ don’t wait up _ and a wink, ready to forget about the morning’s intimacies in turn for some roughhousing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw if you have questions about the morality or coherence of this fic, I probably can't help you because I wrote it in a fever dream but I'll try lol <333 thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> [Come saay hi on tumby :)](https://persony-pepper.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks to @bardic-charm for betaing this!


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